


Cherries

by RussianWitch



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Slash, Self-Hatred, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Illya's lips are crimson with cherry juice, turns his fingertips almost purple as he mechanically works his way through the large bowl.Lazy afternoons, personal demons, stupid chances.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Now beta'd.  
> Many thanks to Andi4 for the great work!

Illya's lips are crimson with cherry juice.

It turns his fingertips almost purple as he mechanically works his way through the large bowl. Strong white teeth rip the soft flesh of the fruit, thick tongue cleans the pit of every last bit of taste before it's mercilessly discarded. 

Napoleon sits, unable to look away from the massacre, mouth dry, paralyzed with longing to round the table and use his mouth to clean up the mess his partner is making of himself. Thankfully Illya doesn't notice, too consumed by his late summer treat. He shouldn’t allow himself to be affected this much by such a simple thing, but for once Napoleon is helpless; his usually impeccable control shot to hell. 

The Russian leans back with a contented sigh, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the lazy afternoon sun. All Napoleon can think of are the man's large hands, the way drops of juice have left red trails all the way from the long, blunt fingers down to the strangely delicate wrists with the bumps of the Ulna sticking out, and the veins close under the surface of too pale skin. 

Illya, Napoleon has discovered, burns badly and thus avoids the sun as much as possible, leaving him winter pale even in the middle of August. The few instances the blonde enjoys the sunshine are rare and always a marvel. Gaby has compared the dour man to a moody alley cat, citing his chronic distrust of the hand that feeds him, and the way Illya manages to indulge, even wallow in the small pleasures in life. Napoleon, for all his hedonism, has never managed to achieve that level of indulgence. "Stop staring, cowboy." The lazy growl startles Napoleon from his thoughts, Illya's eyes are still closed but somehow he still knows when Napoleon is watching. Napoleon, kind of hates him for that. 

"How do you know I'm staring at you?" He asks, looking out in to the square below their balcony in hopes of finding something that might have justified that much attention. There isn't much to work with, but he can always bluff. An eyebrow rises conveying Illya's disbelief, but the Russian doesn't comment for the longest time going back to enjoying the sunlight. "Always you stare." He finally drawls, sounding strangely pleased. 

Not for the first time, Napoleon wonders if they aren't constantly misunderstanding each? There is such a thing as a cultural gap after all, and Peril might sound like he's fluent in English—but, that doesn't mean he understands the nuance of the language, the cultural significance of words combined with actions. With anyone else, Napoleon would swear he's being extended an invitation. With Illya, he bites back a multitude of comments that may set the man off, and spends far longer on his shower than strictly practical working off his frustration. 

By now, one of his favorite fantasies is leaving the door to the bathroom unlocked, and having Illya 'catch' him. Not that reality would ever live up to Napoleon's fantasy: Illya would either ignore Napoleon, or in the worst case scenario would react violently. 

Flirting with disaster is all good and well, but there are still faint scars on Napoleon's back from early lessons in the consequences of sin. The Jesuit priests had not been merciful then—to ensure god's mercy at a later date. The marks had faded over the years, some replaced and others forgotten, but a shadow of them had always remained tattooed on his skin. Napoleon has never felt the urge to add to them: never given anyone reason to suspect, or denounce him of anything else but being a thief or a con-artist. Still, a man may dream, and Napoleon is sure to dream tonight of licking cherry juice off Peril's skin, if they get a chance to sleep that is. 

He misses Gaby, the way she always manages to run interference between the two of them. Watching her bait Peril was always a good distraction, even if it regularly leaves him a bit green around the eyes. He knows the girl has tried to sleep with the giant, but every time the Russian managed to escape, much to her frustration. That isn't evidence of anything, for all he knows Peril is married...Napoleon hasn't noticed a ring or evidence of its removal on Illya's hand, but that doesn't mean much either: soldiers take wedding rings off for safety reasons, spies shouldn't wear wedding rings at all. 

Is Illya married? Is there such a thing as a 'confirmed bachelor' in the Sojuze? Napoleon isn't sure if he wants to know. As long there is no certainty, he can dream—"Why you here, cowboy? Now that we 'off duty', you find pretty girl." He usually does: pretty and young, mature and married, doesn't really matter as long as there is a spark that draws him to them. Napoleon can forget himself between their thighs, and for a little while be in love with someone he can have. 

'Be in love'? He frowns wondering where the hell that thought came from? He can't be in love with the dour, moody, Russian. The thought is intolerable enough to propel him from his seat to pace the room ignoring Illya's questioning eyes on his back. He should leave, only he doesn't want to: he wants to sit in the claustrophobic room watching Peril read in a patch of sun and eating cherries until he is sick. It's ridiculous, and embarrassing, it's so far below his usual standards that it's almost funny. 

"Napoleon." He jumps lashing out from habit, and ends up with his face smashed into the wall, the long, hard body he'd just been thinking about pressed against his back. "You not your own self. What is problem?" Illya growls, either offended by Napoleon's accidental attack, or pissed off because Napoleon hasn't taken his suggestion and left the room already. "Considering my position, I'm not the one with the problem, I'd say." He tries to snarl, but Illya's body is far too distracting in Napoleon's current predicament for him to hit the proper tone. 

"You have been acting strange whole mission." Illya tells him, "I do not like strange." Another thing Napoleon can add to the extremely long list of all the things his partner doesn't like or approve of. He could write a book, or possibly a whole series by now. "Can I persuade you to write it off as another example of Western decadence?" He offers, fighting the urge to arch back to feel more of the powerful body pinning him. There is no way to articulate the conflicting urges he's managed to suppress for so long, especially to the person who's fault it is they reared their ugly head. 

"No." Illya decides after some consideration. Part of Napoleon wonders which variables were used to come to that verdict, and how he could get Illya to explain the process. "You will talk." He's shoved into the wall a little harder, feels more of Illya's body than his sanity is ready for as the giant changes his grip hating both Illya and himself more by the second. "What is problem?" Illya demands again, spinning Napoleon so they are face to face. The giant looks, Napoleon think, like he's ready to bulldoze right over whatever problem Napoleon might have just to get his quiet time back. It almost makes Napoleon feel guilty for not going out and leaving the man in peace. 

"I'm afraid none of your multitude of talents are suited to resolve..." he's slammed into the wall again, feels the familiar shaking start in Illya's hand. "Now, Cowboy!" The Russian growls, rattled, fierce and too beautiful for comfort. Napoleon arches his neck, tilts his head imagining closing the last inch of distance between them and finding out if Illya still tastes of cherry. He doesn't even realize that he's licking his lips until Illya growls, his eyes turning black. 

For one impossible moment, Napoleon is certain that he's going to get at least part of his wish, before Illya jerks himself away, stumbles back gangly, uncoordinated and quite unlike his usual self turning away with a curse that manages to raise Napoleon's brows. Illya doesn't curse considering it not to be fitting for a proper party member, and good example of a communist. Something has to be very wrong for Illya to resort to vulgarity, instead of violence. Illya practically throws himself out of the room on to the sun drenched balcony hands twisting in to the delicate iron railing making Napoleon fear for its integrity. "Peri—Illya?" 

"You enjoy mocking." The Russian tells the street soft enough that Napoleon has to strain to hear it. "I suppose I do, sometimes." Except he hasn't had the energy lately, too preoccupied with keeping himself from doing something foolish. 

"You are justified," Illya breaks in, still refusing to look at him. "My mother was not the only degenerate in the family." 

"Illya what," Napoleon can't wrap his head around the words. He'd never brought Illya's family's disgrace up, not since they had become partners. If he was honest with himself, Napoleon had worked very hard to forget all about Illya's history. After all it hadn't mattered to the KGB in the end? They had, after all, accepted Illya into their ranks and trusted him enough to allow him to operate far behind the Iron Curtain and away from supervision. "My luck always been even degenerates are useful, on occasion." 

"I don't understand." Napoleon breaks in, stepping up to lay a hand on Illya's shoulder hoping to offer support if not with words, than at least with his presence. "Don't you?" Illya asks, finally turning around and somehow Napoleon's hand ends up on Illya's chest and Illya's paw of a hand cupping his cheek. "You are not blind, Cowboy."  

Illya's nails scratch lightly across Napoleon's cheek, down along his jaw and throat where Illya nervously fumbles at Napoleon's tie before pushing away. "Blinder than you think!" He sighs, hope rearing its ugly head again, he grabs Illya's hand pulling him along back into the privacy of the room surprised that the Russian follows without protest. 

Once out of sight, Napoleon reaches up, cups Illya's face, really looks at the man for the very first time. The Russian struggles weakly, freezing when Napoleon's thumb brushes the corner of his mouth. "I want to taste you." He whispers, rubbing at the traces of sticky cherry juice. 

"Napoleon," Illya snaps, but something in his eyes tells Napoleon he doesn't mean it. "This is very bad idea!"  

"Yes." He can't disagree, both of them have far too much to lose, too many eyes watching their every move, but the afternoon sun is warming the crisp, white cotton sheets of the bed, and making Illya's hair look like spun gold. He might pay for it later, but in that very moment all Napoleon cares about is seeing Illya sprawled on the soft cotton spent and satisfied. 

Rising on tiptoe, he slots their mouths together. 

And Illya tastes like cherry.

**Author's Note:**

> Sojuz means Union, as in Soviet Union


End file.
